


Is It Working?

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [70]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artists, M/M, Patron!Tony
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-06-01 06:50:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15137510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: “It’s not that I don’t appreciate his talent. It’s attitude that I resent.”“Resent?” Tony whistled and pulled his head out of the nest of watercolors he was rooting through. “Jesus, Steve. I didn’t realize you had it that bad.”





	Is It Working?

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts: Unresolved sexual tension and Rivalmance. Prompts from this [generator](http://colormayfade.tumblr.com/generator) and [this one](http://bleep0bleep.tumblr.com/prompts).

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate his talent. It’s attitude that I resent.”

“Resent?” Tony whistled and pulled his head out of the nest of watercolors he was rooting through. “Jesus, Steve. I didn’t realize you had it that bad.”

Steve gave him the finger. Tony just laughed.

“Is that anyway to treat a customer? Your patron? Your _only_ patron?”

“Ok, only patron,” Steve said, flushing, “look. I’m trying to be straight with you here and you’re giving me crap about it.” He shoved his hands through his hair--a definite mistake, since most of his fingers were wearing purple and green. “This Barnes is bad news, Tony. I can feel it. No matter how crazy talented he is. I mean, it’s your money, obviously, and if you want to sponsor him or whatever, great. But get him his own studio. Don’t put him in here with me.”

Tony shook his head and padded over to Steve’s easel, his bare feet quiet on the old wooden floors. He cupped Steve’s face, ran his thumb through a streak of kelly green, and despite himself, Steve sighed, found himself leaning into the touch. “Babe,” Tony said, “I hear you, I do. And I’m sorry that he rubs you the wrong way--his energy is, ah, a little unique. But it’s not like he’s gonna set up shop right here next to you; he’ll be down on the ground floor, all by his lonesome. You’ll still have all of this space to yourself.”

Steve wound his hand around Tony’s wrist, snaked the other out towards his waist. “As long as you don’t have us over for dinner at the same time.”

“I promise. Who says I’m feeding him, anyway? Maybe that’s just a you and me thing.”

“Yeah?” Steve tilted his chin and rubbed his mouth against Tony’s, a breeze, a tease. “What about this? You planning on fucking him, too?”

“Language, darling, language. Nobody likes an artist with a dirty mouth.”

“The fuck they don’t,” Steve said. “And I like how you didn’t answer my question.”

Tony’s fingers slipped between them and cupped the line of Steve’s cock, his palm hot through the stretch thin of Steve’s ancient sweats. “What if I told you it’s none of your business?”

Steve reached down and squeezed Tony’s ass, reveled in Tony’s sharp gasp. “I’d say you were trying to rile me up.”

“Hell yes,” Tony said, more breath than words. “Is it working?”

Steve licked that breath away, came back for another. “Depends,” he said.

Tony made a sweet, desperate sound. “You want me to say that I’d suck his cock if he asked? That if he looked at me nice I’d get on my knees and beg until he took it out? God, you’ve seen him, Steve. A man that pretty, he’s gotta have a gorgeous dick.”

He was hard now, knew Tony could feel it. “Maybe. Doesn’t mean you have to be drooling for it. What I give you isn’t good enough, huh?” He dug the nails of one hand in, raised the other to give Tony’s ass a sharp, stinging slap. “Is that it? You need more?”

“Steve Grant Rogers,” Tony groaned, writhing in his grip, “there’s a perfectly good bed over there that I paid for, goddamn it, with nice 400-count sheets, and if you don’t fucking get me over there fast, I’m gonna come in these really nice pants.”

“These?” Steve traced Tony’s waist.

“Yeah, they cost--”

Steve cut him off. “Let me guess: more than my rent?”

“Oh, fuck yes. They’re Italian wool. Tailor-made.”

A grin, and for the first time since Tony’d brought up that asshole Bucky Barnes, Steve felt some kind of peace. “Yeah,” he said, reaching for Tony’s fly, kicking back the button, “then you’re definitely coming in them.”


End file.
